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I remember the pills from years ago...but you were doing so much better now.
Nearly three years sober with a beautiful little girl of your own now and assistance that was helping you find your own food and shelter, find work and finally get on your own two feet.
I know you have no family around here...I know you have such a small support network...I know it's hard to even let me in.
I always worried about you relapsing on the pills. I couldn't in a million years have imagined you touching anything like Meth.
And without a job and with your child at your mother's...without any money...it pains to even imagine the things you're doing to get it.
For the first time in years, I was saddened to see you or to hear your name...that tell-tale drowsiness and glazed-over look in your eyes, half-rolled back into your head.
You tell me to just give you time...you tell me you'll be okay; it's not really that bad. But even if you come back from this alive, I know you'll never be the same.
The friend I held dear is dying...and you're the one killing her.
Weed, coke, pills, even heroine, none of these things is anything like what you're fucking with now.
You can't possibly be more than 2-3 months into it, I know...but it's already far too late to ever come back from this unscathed.
I love you...I miss you...but right now I couldn't possibly be more pissed at you.